


No such thing as love in this world

by prettyforgemaster (crimsonherbarium)



Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Castlevania (Cartoon)
Genre: Character Study, Conversations, Fate & Destiny, Ficlet, Gen, Wistful, and i also imply that his thread may not bind him to the person he thinks it does, in which Isaac encounters someone much more powerful than himself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 15:49:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29456277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonherbarium/pseuds/prettyforgemaster
Summary: A world stretched and shivered in the depths of the half-woven tapestry upon the loom. Packs of roving night creatures fell upon unguarded homesteads. Parades of men in robes wielding candles as if they were swords marched slowly along the banks of a river. A city-state rose and fell and crumbled into dust, unnoticed by its neighbors.Somewhere in Isaac’s mind, a door was closing, blotted out by a cloud of wind-swept sand. His grasping fingers closed on nothingness.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 5
Collections: Discord Community Archive





	No such thing as love in this world

Isaac held up a hand as he sighted the shack at the top of the next hill, signaling his horde to halt.

They remained, frozen to the earth, growling and hissing as he dismounted his demonic steed and continued on foot. They did not like to be separated from him. He knew that innately; he felt it in his core with the exact same tug that he felt on his beating heart every time he reached down into hell to cast an unfortunate soul earthward.

And yet they could not disobey him. They were bound to him, both by oath and by the esoteric rites of his forging. There could be no mutiny. They would follow him until the ends of the earth, and probably after that, as well.

The shack’s door fit poorly in its frame, and swung inward when he laid his hand upon it. From within came the sound of scratching, of little rodent claws on packed earth, and of wood creaking. Isaac entered like a ghost, the tread of his boots scarcely making a sound as he walked, but the instant he crossed the threshold all sound ceased.

“I smell you, Forgemaster,” a crone’s voice whispered from within. “No need to hide yourself from me.”

“You smell me?” he responded, not for the first time, walking further in. Toward the faint glow of a flame flickering in a hearth, fighting in vain against the draft that seeped in through the gaps in the shack’s boards. “What is it you smell that tells you what I am?”

“You stink of Hell.” The reply was simple, and Isaac could almost imagine a smile curling its speaker’s lips.

“And what does Hell smell like, to you?”

“Regret.”

Isaac emerged at last into the faint wash of the fire’s glow, and blinked as his eyes adjusted to the low light. The room was littered with the detritus of needlework; everywhere were spools of thread and baskets of wool waiting to be spun. The hulking shape of a loom squatted in the corner, and from its half-woven tapestry thousands of threads dangled. Isaac could not have said where they started or ended; simply that they seemed to continue on forever. The walls of the shack were nothing more than the illusion of boundaries.

The speaker was a woman. It was impossible to say whether she was old or young. She simply _was,_ silver curls only just visible through the veil that covered her face and body. Threads of many colors wrapped around her slender fingers. Here and there, one of them frayed.

Isaac bowed his head. “In the village, they told me that a witch lived on this hill.”

A smirk curved the woman’s lips. “Is that why you chose to come here?”

“I cannot pass up the opportunity to meet a witch.” Isaac smiled faintly. “Although I can see that that description did not do you justice.”

“Words rarely do.”

“What shall I call you?”

She hummed softly. “The people of this village call me Lopa. I believe that will suffice.”

“I understand.” Isaac sat on the ground by the hearth, letting its feeble warmth seep into his cloak. “I am called Isaac...but you know that already, don’t you?”

Lopa bowed her head softly. “Perceptive.”

“I would not have survived for this long if I wasn’t.”

One of the malnourished logs on the fire popped as it splintered open. Isaac cast his gaze around the shack's interior, his eyes still adjusting to the low light. There was precious little in the way of creature comforts: a pitcher of cream, a loaf of seed-studded bread. A small bedroll tucked into one corner. The loom dominated all, hunched over in its corner like some strange beast. 

A world stretched and shivered in the depths of the half-woven tapestry upon it. Packs of roving night creatures fell upon unguarded homesteads. Parades of men in robes wielding candles as if they were swords marched slowly along the banks of a river. A city-state rose and fell and crumbled into dust, unnoticed by its neighbors. 

“I can’t help but notice your tapestry,” Isaac remarked, certain that he had seen its colors shift in the dim light. “Tell me—whose history is it you’re weaving?”

“The world’s, in a way.” Lopa touched the tapestry’s raw edge with a fingertip, and a single thread lit up, burning gold as the sun. “However, I am not its architect. My sisters weave and cut. I have only the power to measure.”

“I see,” Isaac replied, although that was far from the truth. His eyes followed the line of the thread, glowing white hot like wire pulled from the heat of the forge, from the loom’s maw to the vanishing point of the shack’s eaves. 

“There are those who would say that makes me the least consequential of the three of us,” Lopa continued, peering somewhere past where Isaac’s sight could reach, “but I think you’ll agree that is far from the truth.”

“What do you mean?”

Lopa hummed. “I am the assignor of lots. I can neither work the loom, nor cut the threads myself, but I am the one who determines the final design. If a thread is cut too soon or too late, the entire tapestry suffers. My work ensures no holes, no snarls. The fabric weaves together smoothly.”

Isaac glanced pensively at the intricate web of threads hanging from the ceiling. “May I ask where those threads end?”

She smiled pityingly. “The answer would not interest a man like you.”

“And what _would_ interest a man like me?”

“A great many things, I’m certain, many of which I cannot give to you. Revenge. Power. A purpose—”

“And?” 

“The destination toward which a single thread is carrying you.”

Isaac regarded Lopa with a guarded expression. She was dangerous, far more so than she appeared, of that he was certain. It was only at her mercy that he sat here, absorbing the warmth of her hearth unharmed and unhindered. As she stepped closer to him, into its faint glow, innumerable lines became visible upon her face, dividing her into minute portions like a spider’s web. Her eyes, only just visible through the shroud of her veil, were milky white. 

Isaac held up his own, bare hands. “I do not see any of your threads on me.”

“One does not need to see them to have felt their influence.” 

Lopa beckoned, and Isaac felt a sharp tug at his left hand. There, just above the knuckle of his little finger, was an unmistakable knot. He could feel it, even if he could not see it, when he rubbed it with the pad of his thumb. Though the thread was taught, there was no resistance when he pulled his hand away.

“And what sort of influence do these threads of yours have?” 

“A great many things. Victory and ruin. Progeny, legacy. Even love…”

Somewhere in Isaac’s mind, a door was closing, blotted out by a cloud of wind-swept sand. His grasping fingers closed on nothingness.

The scars on his back pulled unpleasantly when his shoulders tensed.

“There is no such thing as love in this world.”

Lopa laughed, and even Isaac had to admit the sound was unsettling. It echoed as if her throat were a bottomless well, and the sound continued long after her mouth had stopped moving.

“Is that what you believe?” she said as the reverberations faded slowly, leaning down and lifting his chin with one bony fingertip. 

Isaac met her gaze without fear. “It is what I know.”

She released him after a moment, shaking her head slowly. “Then I have nothing to teach you today, Forgemaster Isaac.”

In a whispering sweep of robes and veil, she turned and busied herself rifling through the contents of an overflowing sewing basket. From its depths she pulled a small ring of tarnished silver, its band engraved with little flowers. 

“Take this.”

Lopa placed it softly into Isaac’s palm. A deadening chill ran through his body as her fingertip brushed his skin. There was no warmth to her, simply the sensation of having been passed over by something much larger and much older than him. Like a leviathan brushing the bottom of a ship with its tail in the night. 

Isaac held the ring up to the light, examining the worn metal. “I believe that this is too small for me.”

She chuckled, turning back to her sewing basket. “It’s a thimble, and a very old one at that. It shouldn’t slip past your first knuckle.”

Isaac squinted at it, trying to note any signs of magic emanating from the band. In this, he failed. The silver remained silver. He reminded himself that if this woman wished to harm him she would have done so already, and slipped it onto his fingertip. 

It fit perfectly. 

“What will this do?”

Lopa shrugged. “It’s difficult to say. Still, it may bring you some small comfort in the days ahead.” 

She sat heavily on the little stool that sat by the foot of the loom, and sighed. 

“My sisters and I are not the only ones in this dark, strange world who can pull the threads, Isaac. Your art is a mirror of mine. We weave, measure, cut. You carry with you the power to reunite severed threads. You sew a different tapestry altogether.”

Outside, one of Isaac’s creatures howled plaintively. 

“You would do well to remember that,” she continued, “when you encounter what awaits you in the land of ice and snow.”

“In Styria?” Isaac got to his feet. “What is it that I will find there?”

Lopa simply shook her head. 

Isaac bowed his. “Thank you. For your hospitality, and for the gift.”

“Visitors to this place are rare indeed. I’m glad to have met you, Forgemaster Isaac.”

Her voice echoed through the chill night air as he stepped outside the shack’s bounds, returning to his waiting army to continue the long march northward.

“We will meet again...when your thread reaches its end.”

**Author's Note:**

> This piece was more of a writing exercise than a proper project. Isaac's conversations were my favorite parts of season 3 by far, and I thought it might be interesting if he unintentionally ran headfirst into one of the Fates. I suppose I'm posting it more for posterity than anything else. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed it.


End file.
